Chapter 2 - Cracks in the Mirror
The Corner Café was a quiet, narrow establishment three blocks from the county courthouse. Its wooden booths were deep and dark, providing the privacy I needed.
I sat at the back booth, my bag tucked securely beside my leg, holding a cup of untouched black coffee.
At 10:02 AM, the brass bell above the door chimed. Mallory Lane stepped inside.
She looked entirely different from the woman who had stood in my kitchen wearing Grant’s sweatshirt. She wore a simple camel-hair coat, dark jeans, and large sunglasses that failed to hide the deep, red puffiness around her eyes. She hadn't slept.
She scanned the room, spotted me, and walked over with hesitant, uneven steps.
"Thank you for meeting me," Mallory whispered, sitting across from me without taking off her coat.
"You have five minutes, Mallory," I said, my voice icy, flat, and completely stripped of warmth. "Make them count."
Mallory’s hands trembled as she pulled off her sunglasses. A faint, dark yellow bruise was visible near her wrist where her coat sleeve pulled back—a fresh grip mark.
"Grant took your laptop last night," she began, her voice shaking. "After you left, he went through the house like a madman. He tore apart the study, searching for something. When he couldn't find it, he... he screamed at me. He blamed me for letting you get away with your bag."
"You came to tell me Grant has a temper?" I asked, leaning back. "I’ve known that for eight years."
"No," Mallory said, leaning across the table, her eyes wide with genuine terror. "You don't understand, Avery. He told me last night that if you don't sign the settlement papers by Monday morning, he’s going to file an emergency ex-parte motion with the family court claiming you are mentally unstable, suffering from severe postpartum psychosis, and unfit to care for the babies."
A cold, sharp rage flared behind my ribs, but I forced my face to remain a mask of stone.
"He can file whatever he wants," I said. "I have medical records, pediatrician logs, and character witnesses."
"He has a doctor’s letter, Avery," Mallory revealed, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "He paid Dr. Harrison—the private physician who treated you during your third trimester—fifty thousand dollars under the table to draft an evaluation stating you showed signs of severe detachment and dangerous postpartum depression during your stay at the hospital."
I stared at her. Dr. Harrison. The doctor Grant had insisted on hiring when my pregnancy became complicated. The doctor who had consistently brushed off my concerns and insisted Grant handle all administrative communications regarding my care.
"Why are you telling me this, Mallory?" I asked, studying her face. "You’re sleeping in my bed. You’re living in my house. Why betray him now?"
Mallory let out a bitter, shuddering laugh, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.
"Because I realized last night that I'm not his partner, Avery. I'm his next target."
She reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small thumb drive, sliding it across the dark wood table toward me.
"What is this?"
"Two weeks ago, Grant asked me to organize his private filing cabinet at the office," Mallory explained, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. "I found a secondary set of accounting books for Mercer Residential. He hasn't just been stealing from your grandmother’s trust. He’s been taking out fraudulent construction loans in my name too. He opened a credit line using my social security number six months ago under the guise of making me an 'equity partner' in his design department."
I looked at the thumb drive, then back at Mallory.
The tragic irony was almost comical. Grant hadn't replaced me with Mallory because he fell in love with her. He had brought her into his life because she was young, trusting, had clean credit, and was desperate for his affection—the exact same qualities I had possessed eight years ago when I designed his first website and wrote his first business plan.
"He's using us both, Avery," Mallory whispered, her voice cracking. "He told me last night that once the divorce was final and the land transfer went through, we were moving to Chicago. But he’s setting me up to take the fall for the credit lines if the audit fails."
"He's not moving to Chicago," I said quietly, pulling the thumb drive into my purse. "He's trying to run before the federal regulators realize Riverbend Industrial Corridor is a fraudulent asset."
"What are you going to do?" she asked, her voice trembling.
May you like
I stood up, pulling my coat tight around myself.
"I'm going to see a lawyer, Mallory," I said, looking down at her. "And if you want to stay out of a federal penitentiary, I suggest you pack your bags, leave my house before Grant gets back, and hire a very good criminal defense attorney of your own."
